Mrs. Austin was an excellent nurse; but if she spent too much time with Mrs. Deborah, Mrs. Angelica was sure to feel symptoms of hysterics or headache, or something, and require her attendance; and these interruptions were another grievance. In fact, I do think she was rather jealous that Deborah should be ill at all, and it was quite impossible for Mrs. Deborah to have any ache or pain that Mrs. Angelica had not felt a dozen times, only a great deal worse.
Under these circumstances, I gradually and naturally slipped into the place of Mrs. Deborah's attendant. She would not have me stay with her at night, but in the day-time I was always at hand to read to her, to bathe her head or her ankle, or merely to sit still by her side with my knitting when she was unable to bear any noise or motion. As she got better, I used to do her errands to the poor people in the village and bring her news about them. She was very unselfish, and every day or two she would send me over to the rectory for two or three hours' amusement; but I knew that the time seemed long to her when I was away, and I never stayed long.
I count the days and weeks which I spent in Mrs. Deborah's sick-room as among the most valuable portions of my whole education. Under Austin's eye I learned to put on a bandage properly, to make a bed and put a room in order, and to arrange the fire without disturbing my patient. I learned to make broth and good gruel—a very uncommon accomplishment even among nurses—and to do those hundred little offices on which the comfort of a sick person depends. I learned, too, to bear patiently with the whims of Mrs. Angelica, and to restrain my too ready tongue and temper when she talked about "those wicked rebels in America, who wouldn't let good King George govern them," or about "dear Sister Deborah making such a fuss about her pains and keeping Austin waiting on her, when 'she' had had exactly the same, only a great deal worse, and had never told anybody."
In the hours when I was alone with her, Mrs. Deborah and I had many delightful talks. She had lived in London and known Miss Burney, the author of my beloved "Evelina," and Doctor Johnson, and all that brilliant and gay society. She had known Mrs. Hannah More, and heard her talk about education, and she amazed me very much by telling me how Mrs. More thought that, though cottage- and servant-girls might learn to read, it would be very undesirable, and even dangerous, to teach them to write.
On the whole, the fall passed very pleasantly, in-doors at least. Without, the weather seemed to me, accustomed to the autumns of New England, with their glorious woods, dismal in the extreme.
CHAPTER XVI.
ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS.
I DID not expect an answer to my letter for six weeks at the very least; but when eight, ten, twelve, passed, and nothing came, I began to feel very home-sick and uneasy, and Mrs. Angelica said it worried her to have the child always looking out for the postman and asking, "Is there no letter for me?"
"And really, Olivia, when we have done so much for you, and my brother is so liberal, and all, I think you might be contented and grateful, and not want to go back to that dreadful America, where there are bears and wolves, and where all the people are rebels."
"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" Mrs. Deborah would say. "It is only natural the child should wish to hear from her parents."
"Oh, I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; but, after all, my brother 'has' been very liberal, and there 'are' bears in America, for Olivia's brother killed one—she told us so herself if you remember; and really, I do think she might be contented."
Mr. Wyndham came down and spent the Christmas holidays with us, bringing all sorts of beautiful presents for his sisters and myself; and forgetting nobody, from Mrs. Austin down to the old man who drove up the cows. Mrs. Austin provided a plum-pudding and a piece of beef for every one of the cottagers, and the duke sent down a sum of money to be divided among them, and new cloaks and gowns to all the old women. It was very kind in him to remember them all, and they were very grateful, but I could not help thinking that it would have been kinder if he had come down himself to look after things and build some decent places for the cottagers to live in. As it was, in several of the cottages a family of a dozen, great and small, would be crowded into two rooms, neither of them fit for a human being to sleep in. But when I hinted as much, Mrs. Austin was dreadfully scandalized, and told me I must never say such things, for it was just such notions which made the French rise and murder so many people. After that I kept my ideas to myself, but, like the parrot in the story, I thought the more.
The church was trimmed with evergreens, ivy, and holly, and looked beautifully, but it was dreadfully cold and damp even in our pew, which had a fire-place all to itself; and I used to pity the old cottagers and the men and women from the alms-houses, who had to sit on the hard benches with their poor rheumatic feet on the stone floor, which was always damp. Nobody had fires in churches then, but ours at home, cold as they were, were not so utterly uncomfortable as this very picturesque and ancient little building, where the air was all the time tainted with exhalations from the vaults below. These vaults were the burial-place of the ducal family and another noble family in the neighbourhood.
We had a Christmas service and sermon, and all the family from the rectory came to dinner, except Miss Talbot. She had been summoned home in haste to see her mother, who was very ill, and, to my great regret, I heard that the poor lady was dead and Miss Talbot was not coming back. I was very sorry for her as I thought how sad she must be, and I felt that for aught I knew my own dear mother might be dead also, so that I could not help crying.
Mrs. Deborah saw the traces of my tears, and called me to herself as she lay on the sofa.
"I see what you are thinking about, child, and it is only natural." (This was Mrs. Deborah's standing excuse for every one.) "I don't blame you for thinking of home and friends, but, Olivia, try to put yourself out of your mind for to-day. You have guests to entertain, and you owe it to them and to yourself not to over-cloud and spoil their holiday by selfishly giving way to your own feelings. I know your mamma would say the same, for from what you have told me, and from what I have seen of your bringing-up, I am sure she must be an excellent, sensible lady."
Mrs. Deborah had touched the right string, as, indeed, she usually did. I was grateful for her praise of my mother, and for her reference to her as a "lady," for Mrs. Deborah did not use that word promiscuously. With her it meant a great deal. So I went and bathed away all traces of my tears, and devoted myself, as Mrs. Deborah had advised, to the entertainment of my guests.
We all sat around the fire in the twilight before dinner, telling Christmas stories, and I contributed my share, with some tales of Indians and wolves which I had heard from my father and Rose. We had a grand dinner, at which I first saw a plum-pudding served in burning brandy, and famous games of blind-man's buff; hunt the slipper, and snap-dragon in the evening. This last is altogether an English game, I believe, and peculiar to Christmas. It is played by filling a large platter with raisins and pouring brandy over them. The brandy is then set on fire, and the players try to snatch the raisins from the flames, and most commonly end by burning both their fingers and their mouths; but nobody minds that.
Christmas trees had not yet been heard of out of Germany, but we children exchanged presents among ourselves,—thanks to Mr. Wyndham, I had plenty of pocket-money,—and when I went to bed after our friends left us, I was rather surprised to find that I had enjoyed the evening, after all. I am quite sure Mrs. Deborah was right in saying that the indulgence of grief is often as selfish as any other self-indulgence.
The next day Doctor Selden came over to dinner, and, to my great joy, he said I might resume my lessons in moderation. It turned out, however, that the Fullers were going to Plymouth to school, and after some consideration it was decided that I should go too. We were all to come home on Saturday and return to school Monday morning, and Mrs. Deborah was to take me out at once if I found my headaches returning.
The school was a fashionable one in the neighbourhood, and was called a very good one. It was kept by Mrs. Williams, a widow, in a handsome old house in one of the most retired and aristocratic streets of Plymouth. I cannot say that I think it was a good school. Mrs. Williams was a kind, well-meaning woman, but, she was a perfect Queen Log. She sat all day, nicely dressed, in the parlour, receiving calls and writing letters, and hardly ever came into the school-room at all. The real authority in the school rested with the French and English teachers, who were at swords' points, and who had their separate parties among the girls. If Miss Nicholas favoured a girl, Madame de Marin was sure to spite her, and no favourite with madame could have a good word with Miss Nicholas. Between the two authorities, there were naturally a good many places where an idle or mischievous girl could slip through restraint, and among the fourteen boarders there were several of each kind.
I had never learned French, but it was decided that I should make a beginning. I must say that it was no wonder I should side with madame, for she was very kind to me, and an excellent teacher of her own language. Moreover, she had a great admiration for America and Washington and the marquis La Fayette, whereas Miss Nicholas had offended me by sneering at "the Yankees" before I had been in her company twelve hours.
Madame was really a good soul in her way, but her party in the school was a very small one. When she found that I really enjoyed my French lessons and made great efforts to please her, she was very kind to me and bestowed much pains on me in return, so that I made famous progress. Mrs. Williams was always gracious when I came in her way, which was not often, but Miss Nicholas seemed to take a dislike to me from the first. She had made up her mind beforehand that I was a dunce, and I don't think she liked me any better for being, as I certainly was, though I say it myself one of the best scholars in school. The girls sometimes petted me and sometimes snubbed me, the snubbing rather predominating, but there was one of the older girls who for a while always took my part. Her name was Isabella Peckham, and she was the daughter of a baronet of very old family, and therefore a person of great consideration in the school. Isabella was a terrible dunce at her lessons, especially at her arithmetic. It seemed as if she could not understand the simplest rules, but, indeed, I don't think it was all her fault, for our writing-master, who also taught arithmetic, was anything but clear in his explanations even when he condescended to give any.
One day I found Isabella actually crying over a sum in compound division. (American children, by the way, don't know how much they have to be thankful for in being born to a decimal currency.)
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"It is this horrid sum," said she. (We did sums in those days, and not "examples.") "It comes out different every time, no matter how I try it."
"You don't do it right," said I. "Let me see it. I don't believe you understand the rule."
"Of course I don't; there's just the trouble. I can't make head or tail of anything that horrid old Mr. Emmons says."
"Well, he isn't very clear," I agreed; "but I guess I can explain it." And so I did; and when the answer at last came out right, Isabella was so grateful that she actually forgot to laugh at me for saying "guess."
"Well, now you understand the rule, you can go on and do the rest," said I when we had proved the sum.
"Oh dear! Olivia, if you will only do them for me this time! Just think! I cannot touch another thing or go out or anything till these are finished. Please, Olivia, do them for me this time."
I refused at first, saying that it would not be right, but Isabella coaxed and cried, and at last I consented. I did the sums, and Isabella copied them into her book and went away rejoicing. It was more than I did. I knew all the time that I was doing wrong; and when I saw the book presented to Mr. Emmons, and heard his commendation of it, my cheeks burned, and I almost thought I would speak right out. But then how could I betray Isabella, who was so kind to me? The next day she came with her slate again, and again I was silly enough to yield. So it went on for a week, I all the time acting against my conscience, and making myself miserable, unable to take any comfort in my prayers, and afraid of being found out.
On Saturday we went home, as I have said. Mrs. Deborah was a great deal better now, so that she was able to go out a little, but still she lay on the sofa a good deal. On Saturday, after dinner, she was thus resting. Mrs. Angelica was sleeping in her chair, as she usually did after dinner. I crept close to Mrs. Deborah's sofa and laid my head down by her pillow.
"What ails you, child?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "You are not like yourself at all. Has anything disagreeable happened to you in school?"
I took a sudden resolution, and told her all about it.
"And the worst of it is, I don't see how to leave off," I concluded. "Isabella will be sure to be in disgrace about her lessons, and then it will all come out."
"Suppose it does; what then?" asked Mrs. Deborah.
"Then we shall both be punished, and Isabella will think that I am a mean, selfish girl, and they will all say it is because I am a Yankee."
"Which do you think will be the worst, to be punished now or hereafter?" said Mrs. Deborah. "And besides, Olivia, I think you forget that there is One who has no need to find you out—who has seen your conduct all along. What do you think he thinks of it?"
I was silent, but I knew very well.
"I shall not give you any advice," continued Mrs. Deborah, after a pause; "advice is for people who don't know what to do, and that is not your case. Let me ask you one question, and then I should like to have you go to your room and think about it: what would your mother say?"
"But the girls will all turn against me, I know," said I. "Miss Peckham is Miss Nicholas's pet, and all the others do just as she says."
"Are you a coward, Olivia Corbet?" interrupted Mrs. Deborah, more sternly than she had ever spoken to me. "Because if you are, I have no more to say to you. There is nothing to be done with a coward."
"What are you and Olivia talking about so long?" asked Mrs. Angelica, rousing up. "Oh, I haven't been asleep, but—"
I went away to my own room without waiting for the conclusion of the sentence.
Mrs. Austin had caused a bright fire to be made in the grate—an unusual indulgence—and nothing could be pleasanter than the snug little apartment lighted up by the blazing coal. I sat down on the rug in front of the grate and put my head down on my knees. I don't think I ever felt more miserable in my life. What would mother say? I knew very well, There was nothing she hated like a lie, and here for a whole week I had been lying every day, for I was altogether too well instructed not to know that there was no difference between telling a lie outright and acting one.
I remembered how I had refused to help Elmina in the same way, and I began to consider my motives for not refusing to help Isabella. It was true. I had been a coward—afraid to refuse to do a mean thing for fear of the consequences to myself. Never in all my life had I been so utterly degraded in my own eyes. I crept to bed feeling as if there was no hope for me—as if I never could hold up my head again.
Mrs. Austin roused me betimes in the morning, for it was necessary to breakfast early in order that I might go back to school in due season. When I was dressed, I opened my shutters and looked out. It was not yet sunrise, but it was light. As I stood looking out I remembered the first morning that I stood by that window. I remembered my resolutions and prayers, and how good my heavenly Father had been to me in comforting me in my trouble and giving me such kind friends to care for me. And this was the return I had made.
Before I left my room I had humbly confessed my sin and asked forgiveness and help in the future, and made up my mind what I would do. We reached school rather late, the roads being very bad, and I had hardly put away my travelling things before Isabella came to me with her books and rather peremptorily requested me to "do her sums directly." Perhaps the tone she assumed helped me a little. At any rate I answered, promptly,—
"I will show you how to do the sums if I can, Isabella—"
"I don't want you to show me; I haven't time for that," interrupted Isabella. "I want you to do them, so that I can copy them this evening."
"But I can't do them for you," I continued, with more firmness; "it isn't right, and I am not going to do it any more."
"Nonsense!" said Isabella, colouring, however. "Why is it any more wrong now than it was last week?"
"It isn't any more wrong. It was very wrong then, and I ought not to have done it. It is just the same as telling a lie."
"Nonsense!" said Isabella, again. "You never said a word, so how can it be a lie?"
"It is a deception, and that is the same thing."
"But nobody will ever know it."
"God will know it," I answered, almost involuntarily; "and you know what he says about liars, Isabella."
"Oh, you are going to set up for a Methodist, are you?" said Isabella, in a taunting tone. "Methodist" was a great term of reproach in England in those days.
"I don't know what a Methodist is," I answered; "but if it means a person who doesn't want to tell lies, then it is a very good name, and I am not ashamed of it."
"But what am I to do?" said Isabella, condescending to argue, as she saw I was not to be frightened. "I shall not have my sums done, and I shall be in disgrace, and everybody will suspect something wrong. I dare say I might have had them ready if I had not depended on you, you cross little thing!"
"I am not cross, Isabella," I said, half crying. "I will help you just as much as you please, but I can't tell any more lies."
"Well, come along, then," said Isabella, sullenly enough.
We sat down to the sum, but Isabella could make nothing of it. She had missed the preliminary steps, and I dare say my explanations were not very clear; at any rate, after half an hour's application she pushed away the slate and book and declared she would not try any more.
"You are very unkind, Miss Corbet, and very disobliging, and I sha'n't forget it," said she.
"I am very sorry, Isabella—" I began; but she interrupted me:
"I don't care for your sorrow, and I don't choose to have you call me 'Isabella,' either—a little Yankee foundling that nobody knows anything about. I might have known just what to expect from a Yankee rebel."
My blood boiled at her tone and words, and I might have retorted on her as I did on Jack Fuller had I not remembered that I had been so much to blame myself. I had certainly a hard time of it that week. Isabella lost no opportunity of tormenting me by insulting allusions to my country and to all that she knew I valued most. The other girls, especially those of Miss Nicholas's special party, were not slow in following her example. I kept out of the way as much as I could, but that was not very much, for we had no private room, but slept in two dormitories, of which one was presided over by madame, the other by Miss Nicholas. I belonged of right in madame's room, but it was full, so I was placed in the other. I could not even say my prayers in peace; for though silence was enjoined in the bed-rooms, I was sure to hear a scornful whisper from some one of "See the little Yankee Methodist!"
I don't think Miss Nicholas troubled herself about the matter very much one way or the other. I knew there would be no use in complaining to her of Miss Peckham if I had been so disposed, which I was not. Emily Fuller did not know the cause of the quarrel between Isabella and me, but she stood up for me faithfully, and shared my disgrace in consequence. Julia was too careless to trouble herself about anything which did not touch her own personal comfort.
This lasted for more than a week, with no relaxation. I had looked forward to Saturday with a longing heart; but when the day came, a great snow-storm blocked up the roads and made travelling impossible.
That evening I was sitting alone in one of the school-rooms. There was no fire, and no light save what shone in from the other room, where the girls were assembled, but I preferred the cold and darkness to the unkind remarks was sure to meet if I tried to go near the fire. Presently, Isabella came in to look for something on the table. She did not speak to me; but turning over the things on the table very hastily, she found whatever she wanted, and went out again, knocking down something—a book, as I supposed. We were presently called to supper and prayers, and then sent to bed.
On Sunday morning somebody in the town sent for Isabella to spend the day and go to hear some famous preacher—I forget his name. The little school-room was not used on Sunday; but when it was opened on Monday morning, the square of carpet under the table was found soaked with ink from a large ink-stand which was overturned on the floor. Now, it was against the rule for any one to meddle with the writing-table at all.
"Who was in the little school-room last?" asked Miss Nicholas.
"Miss Corbet was sitting there all Saturday evening," said a girl who was always courting Isabella Peckham, and who was specially forward in persecuting me.
Miss Nicholas turned upon me at once:
"Miss Corbet, did you spill the ink?"
"No, ma'am," I answered; "I never went near the table."
"Then you must know who did," said Miss Nicholas, "for the ink was not spilled at seven, and at nine I locked the door myself. So you either meddled with the table yourself or you know who did. Who was it?"
"I would rather not tell, Miss Nicholas," was my answer.
"But you must tell, or I shall believe you the guilty one," said she, sharply.
I had, however, made up my mind, rightly or wrongly, that I would not tell of Isabella; for I knew she must have tipped over the ink at the time that I heard the fall. I only repeated that I did not wish to tell.
"Then you will stand in the stocks till you do, and have a double lesson to learn," was Miss Nicholas's sentence.
"The stocks" was a machine for making people turn out their toes, and was principally employed on our dancing-days. It was by no means comfortable even for the short time for which Mr. Lightfoot always used it, but after an hour or so the constrained position became absolute torture. I felt faint and sick, but by that time my temper was roused, and I was determined not to give way.
Isabella Peckham came home in the middle of the morning session. She looked surprised when she saw my position, and at the first chance she asked some one "what the little Yankee had been about to be put in the stocks."
"She spilt the ink all over the floor in the little school-room," was the answer.
Isabella started, and I saw that her face became scarlet.
"Does she own to tipping it over?" she asked.
"No, but she was there all the time, and she owns that she knows who did do it, but she won't tell, and Miss Nicholas says she shall stand in the stocks till she confesses."
Isabella was silent, but she looked at me in a way I hardly understood. When Miss Johnson left the room, she came up to me.
"Olivia," said she, in a whisper, "did you know that I spilt the ink?"
"I knew you were looking for something on the table, and I heard something fall," I replied.
"Then why didn't you tell of me?"
"You know well enough why I didn't," was my haughty answer. "I am no tell-tale, if I did—" And here I stopped.
"If you did cheat for me," said Isabella, finishing the sentence.
But at this moment the bell was rung, and the girls came in and took their seats.
When all was still, Miss Nicholas turned to me:
"Miss Corbet, will you confess, or will you stand in the stocks the rest of the day?"
Before I could answer Miss Peckham, greatly to my surprise, spoke up in a very clear, resolute voice:
"If you please, Miss Nicholas, Olivia has nothing to confess. It was I who meddled with the table, and I suppose spilled the ink, for I heard something fall. I thought it was a book, and I was in a hurry, so I did not stop to see. Olivia was not near the table at all."
It was now Miss Nicholas's turn to look confused, but she quickly recovered herself:
"Very well, Miss Peckham. As you have made a voluntary confession, I will not punish you. Miss Corbet can also be released if she will apologize for her insolence."
"I did not mean to be insolent," I said.
"Don't say you did not mean to," answered Miss Nicholas, sharply. "You know you were; and unless you make it humble apology, you shall stand where you are till dinner-time."
"I am sorry if I was," I answered.
"'If I was' won't answer, miss. That proud spirit of yours must be humbled once for all. Miss Peckham, where are you going?" as that young lady rose.
Miss Peckham deigned no answer, but left the room, and in about half an hour, during which time I thought I should faint more than once, she returned, to the amazement of every one, with Mrs. Williams herself. There was nobody we would not as soon have expected to see in the school-room except at prayers or with visitors; for as I have said, she was usually a regular Queen Log, but Isabella had found means to rouse her for once. She ordered my instant release in a voice that made every one start. Then, giving me her own smelling-bottle, she began to inquire into the circumstances. Miss Nicholas told her own story, and then Isabella told hers, adding, with tears, that she knew she had done very wrong and had been unkind and cruel to me, but she was not so mean as to want me to be punished for her fault.
Mrs. Williams was a lady of great dignity. She drew herself up, took a pinch of snuff from her gold-enamelled box—all ladies look snuff in those days—and then delivered her judgment:
"Miss Nicholas, you have been to blame. I have often told you that no young lady must stand in the stocks more than half an hour, and that I would have no punishing to extort confessions. It is often done, I am aware, but I consider the practice a cruel one, leading often to lying. Moreover, you should have accepted the apology Miss Corbet made. It was quite sufficient."
She paused a moment and took another pinch, while Miss Nicholas turned first white, then red. I think myself that Mrs. Williams was rather hard upon her in thus reproving her before all the school, but our governess was like many other easy-going people that I have known: when she once got started she did not know when to stop. Presently she continued:
"I am also informed by Miss Peckham that both she and the other young ladies have been in the habit of teasing and affronting Miss Corbet because she is an American, calling her a 'Yankee' and other opprobrious names. I am sorry and displeased that any such thing should have happened. Miss Corbet cannot help being born an American." (As if I would have helped it if I could!) "I consider that the ladies have been very much to blame in such conduct, and I cannot think it would have gone as far as I understand it has if you, Miss Nicholas, had done your duty. I expect that proper apologies shall be made to Miss Corbet, and that no such thing shall happen in future. Miss Corbet shall have a half holiday to make up for the unjust punishment she has suffered, and she may make choice of any young lady she pleases to be her companion and to drink tea with me this evening."
So saying, Mrs. Williams gathered up her black velvet and cashmere and swept out of the room, leaving a very surprised and ashamed company.
I think Miss Nicholas was sorry as well as ashamed when she saw that I could hardly bear my weight on my feet. I chose Emily for my companion, and we passed the afternoon very happily in the parlour, I lying on the sofa to rest my swelled and aching ankles, and Emily reading or talking to me.
Miss Peckham got permission to come in and see me, and she very earnestly begged my pardon, and brought me similar messages from the other girls.
I was very happy and could afford to be magnanimous, seeing I had got so very much the best of it; but I had also, I hope, a real desire to be forgiving and kind.
"Please don't say any more about it, Miss Peckham," said I. "If I hadn't done so very wrong at first, it would not have happened."
"That is no excuse for me," she answered; and then, after a little silence, "I don't suppose you will ever love me or call me 'Isabella' again."
"I'm sure you cannot wonder if she don't," said Emily, who was not disposed to forgive so easily.
"But I will both love you and call you 'Isabella,' and I will help you about your sums too," said I, "if only you won't laugh at the 'Yankees' any more. How would you like it, if you were in a strange place, to have every one making fun of your country?"
Isabella agreed that it would be very disagreeable and very mean, and there the matter ended.
Mrs. Williams, coming in at that moment and seeing Isabella, invited her also to tea. We were regaled with plum-cake and raspberry jam, and passed a very pleasant evening. When I was going up to bed, I lingered a moment, and thus had a chance to speak to Miss Nicholas, for I could not be content without trying to be friends with everybody.
"Please, Miss Nicholas, won't you kiss me good-night?" I half whispered, going close to her. "Indeed, I did not mean to be insolent to you, only I did not want to tell of Isabella; and besides, you know, I could not be quite sure that she did it."
Miss Nicholas seemed really moved. She kissed me quite affectionately, and told me she was sure I meant to be a good girl and perhaps she had been too severe with me. I was careful to treat her with great respect ever afterward, and we continued good friends as long as I stayed at school, which was not long.
I think the poor English teacher had a very hard time of it. She was over-burdened with work, a great deal of it such as no teacher ought to be troubled with. She attended to the girls' wardrobes and mended for the little ones, besides washing and dressing them, and she had a great deal of responsibility, with very little real authority. I really think Austin's place was very much the better of the two. Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that my mother's spinning-girl, Lucy Cherryman, was less hardly worked and treated with more consideration than our English teacher at Mrs. Williams's.
With the girls I also got on very well. I think they liked me all the better for my spirit and felt ashamed of their persecution, which, as Mrs. Williams truly said, could not have gone so far if Miss Nicholas had done her duty. No doubt, too, I owed a good deal to Isabella's friendship and protection. Anyhow, we had no more quarrels, and I had a fair share of all amusements and privileges; and as I was always ready to help in any right way, whether in fun or in lessons, the "little Yankee" presently grew to be a great favourite.
But my school-days did not last much longer. Going home one Saturday in March. Mrs. Deborah told me that a friend was waiting for me up in my room. Running up in great wonder to see who it could be, I found a nice fire made, my candles lighted, and on the toilet-table a thick ship-letter directed in my father's hand-writing.
CHAPTER XVII.
HOME AGAIN.
WHAT a time I made over that letter, to be sure! I kissed it a dozen times; and then I was taken with a cold fit of apprehension, and felt perfectly certain that it announced the death of some member of the family; and then I perceived that it was sealed with red wax; and finally I opened it. I rushed through its contents in the greatest haste, to be sure that it contained no bad news, and then I read it again more leisurely from end to end, and then I cried a little over it, and then I read it again.
It was very long. Father and mother wrote that, while they were very thankful that such kind friends had been raised up to me, and very grateful to those friends, they could not think of giving away their daughter to grow up in a foreign land and never see her parents again. They had sent Mr. Wyndham the money to pay for my homeward passage as soon as a safe opportunity should be found for me to come to New York, where my father would meet me.
So I was really going home! I had dreamed about being at home half the nights that winter, and now the prospect of going seemed a dream. I shut my eyes and tried to think how all my friends had looked the last time I saw them, and how it would seem to be living on a farm in Vermont; and then I remembered, with a pang, that going home involved parting, probably for ever, with all my dear English friends. And then I read my letter over again, and was still reading it when Mrs. Austin opened the door.
"Just as I expected!" said she. "Don't you know that the first dinner-bell has rung, miss? No, of course you don't know anything, poor dear! Only that you have a letter from home. Here, take off your slip and wash your face, and I will get out your dressing things. I hope your pa and ma are well, miss, and that all the news is good?"
All the time Austin was talking she was getting out my things, brushing my hair, and helping me to dress. My hair had grown very fast, and I now wore it in thick curls.
"I must learn to arrange my hair myself," said I, as I looked in the glass; "I shall not have any one to curl it for me when I go home."
"You are not gone yet, miss," said Austin, shortly, not to say snappishly. "Maybe there will be two words to that."
These words set me thinking, and I began to wonder whether it were possible that Mr. Wyndham might keep me, after all; but I rejected the idea as absurd, and went down to the sitting-room, where, to my surprise, I found Mr. Wyndham himself. He looked very grave, and even sad, but he kissed me kindly as usual, and produced from his pocket a beautiful little "equipage" he had brought me. A lady's "equipage" contained scissors, tweezers, thimble, tablets, and pencil, and usually a bottle of some perfume, and was meant to be carried in the pocket. Pockets were "pockets" in those days. They were made large and deep, worn in pairs, and tied round the waist with a string.
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham, you are a great deal too good to me," said I, gratefully.
He kissed me again, but said nothing.
Mrs. Deborah came in pretty soon, and then Mrs. Angelica, the latter in one of her moods, as I saw at the first glance.
"Well, did you find your company?" asked Mrs. Deborah, smiling.
"Oh yes, madam," I answered; and then I gave Mrs. Deborah a little note my mother had sent her in the letter.
"Your mother is very obliging, I am sure," said she as she read the note; "she writes a pretty hand, and expresses herself very kindly indeed. I shall make a point of answering her note when—when I have a proper opportunity. Sister Angelica, will you read Mrs. Corbet's note?"
"Really, Sister Deborah, it is very peculiar in you to ask me to read, when you know I have such a headache that I can hardly see out of my eyes," answered Mrs. Angelica, the mournful tone I so well knew. "And I don't know why I should read it, either. Mrs. Corbet is a stranger to us, and I think it peculiar in her to write at all."
"I suppose Olivia's mother does not regard us as strangers," said Mrs. Deborah. "She thinks of us as Olivia's friends, and therefore her own."
"And I don't see how she can be Olivia's mother, either," pursued Mrs. Angelica. "I am sure my brother said Olivia was an orphan—I have his note now—so how can she have a mother?"
"That was my mistake," said Mr. Wyndham. "I inferred that she was so from the fact that she was living with her aunt on the same footing as poor little Miss Vernon."
"I don't know anything about her aunt or little Miss Vernon; I only know that you said yourself, Brother Augustus, that Olivia was an orphan. And I don't see what right these people have to take her away, and I must say I think Olivia is very ungrateful to want to go back to that dreadful country."
The bringing in of the dinner diverted Mrs. Angelica, to my great relief. Fortunately, the cook had made a different kind of soup from that which had been ordered, and there was no shrimp sauce to the fish, so the poor lady had a new grievance, which took her attention off from me. After dinner she went to sleep in her chair, and Mr. Wyndham carried Mrs. Deborah and myself off to the library for a conversation on my prospects.
"So you know by this time that we are to lose you, my little Olivia," said he, kindly. "Your father and mother think they cannot give away a daughter, though they have two others and poor I have none. Ah, well! I cannot blame them."
"No, indeed; it is only natural," said Mrs. Deborah. "I am sure, Augustus, our own honoured father and mother would never have given away poor dear Charlotte even to the duke himself. I think Olivia is like Charlotte as she was when a child; don't you think so?"
"I thought so the first moment I ever saw her," said Mr. Wyndham; and then there was a little pause.
"Well, my dear, your father has written me a very fine, manly letter," said Mr. Wyndham, presently. "He need not have sent money for your passage home; that was very unnecessary, and not quite reasonable, seeing that I was the means of your coming. You know, Olivia, how very glad we should be to keep you—" Mr. Wyndham cleared his throat, and getting out his snuff-box, offered it to his sister and look a great pinch himself—"but your parents' will must of course be obeyed."
"Of course," added Mrs. Deborah. "We shall miss Olivia very much—very much; she has been a very good girl ever since she came, and was the greatest possible comfort to me while I was lame. I hardly knew what I should have done without her."
It gave me a painful pleasure to hear Mrs. Deborah speak in this way, and I could hardly keep back the tears, which I knew she disliked, as I answered,—
"Dear Mrs. Deborah, I am so glad I could be any comfort to you. You have all been so good to me."
"Nonsense, child! It was only natural to be kind to a good little girl who was shipwrecked on a strange shore."
"It would not be natural to everybody," said I, remembering Miss Nicholas. "I have been so happy here, and learned so much! I am sure I shall never forget it."
Mrs. Deborah put her hand on my head and smoothed down my hair, and I got hold of her other hand and kissed it.
"Well, well!" said Mr. Wyndham, after another little pause. "Of course Olivia must go, as I said. An American gentleman whom I have known for some years in London sails for New York about the end of April, and his wife has kindly consented to take charge of Olivia. She is an estimable lady, and I presume will take excellent care of her. I shall write to Mr. Corbet by the first mail, so that he can provide for meeting his daughter in New York; and meantime, as it is desirable that she should have a suitable outfit, and as also I want to enjoy as much of her society as possible, I propose that you all return with me to London."
I was delighted with the prospect of seeing London, and I don't think Mrs. Deborah was averse to it. Mrs. Angelica made many objections, of which one was that we were sure to be robbed on the road. But when Mrs. Deborah said, "Very well; then we will give it up," she changed her tone and thought it very hard that Deborah should want to deprive her of the pleasure of seeing London once more.
The next day we all went to church together.
Of the three large pews which I mentioned in my description of the church, only ours was usually occupied, but to-day the one opposite was filled, and Mrs. Angelica was no sooner in church than she whispered to her sister that Sir John Denham and his family were come down, which, indeed, she could have seen for herself.
Lady Denham and the Misses Denham were very fine ladies indeed, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion; and a very short and scanty and low-necked extreme it was. I do not by any means admire the dress of the present day, but I can tell the people who rail at it, and who talk about the simplicity of their grandmothers, that that simplicity was rather too much like that of Eve in the garden. If any young lady were to appear now in such a dress as perfectly modest women of fashion wore during the French Revolution, she would be in danger of being openly rebuked.
Lady Denham was a good-natured-looking woman, in spite of her finery, and spoke kindly to me when I was presented to her after church. She asked Mr. Wyndham and his sisters to dine with them next day, excusing the shortness of the notice by the fact that they were so soon to return to town.
Mrs. Angelica was delighted, and said, as we were walking home, how charming it was to have some society once more, and how very affable Lady Denham was, and how very elegant were the young ladies. She had the conversation mostly to herself, only Mr. Wyndham said he supposed there was no getting out of it, and Mrs. Deborah said it was only for once. However, they all went, and I was left at home with Mrs. Austin, for I was not to go to school any more. I ate my roasted chicken and apricot tart in solitary state, Mrs. Austin standing behind my chair and carving for me with as much ceremony as if I were a whole dinner-party. After dinner I begged her to bring her knitting and sit with me, and she consented. Indeed, she often did so with her "ladies," as she called them.
"How came Mrs. Angelica to be so different from Mrs. Deborah?" I ventured to ask, after she had entertained me with various bits of family history and tradition.
"Well, my dear, I hardly know," answered Mrs. Austin. "She was always rather delicate, for one thing, and both my mistresses—her own mother and Mr. Augustus's mother—petted her and let her have her own way. Mrs. Deborah was always active, and liked to work and wait on people, but Mrs. Angelica was excused and indulged till she came to think that everything must give way to her. 'Poor Angelica' she was always called in the family."
"I think it is 'Poor Deborah' sometimes," said I. "I can't help feeling provoked at the way Mrs. Deborah gives way and puts herself and her own pleasure aside for her."
"Well, I won't deny but I have felt the same way, Miss Olivia, scores of times," said Mrs. Austin, "specially when they were younger and going into company. It was always 'Poor Angelica' who must have the new gown, if there was but one, and the new riding-habit and the seat in the carriage, and so on, and Mrs. Deborah must give way. 'Deborah won't care,' everybody said, because she was always so sweet about it. I don't want to judge my betters, but I do think it would have been wiser in my mistresses to make Mrs. Angelica know what 'giving up' meant; and there's one thing you may learn, my dear, from her example, and that is not to let yourself get in the habit of having set ways, so as to think you must have one particular chair and place, and so on. You can see how much trouble it makes."
"Please, Mrs. Austin, who was Charlotte?" I ventured to ask, presently. "Mrs. Deborah said I was like Charlotte."
"And so you are, my dear. Charlotte was Mr. Augustus's own sister, and a very pretty young lady she was, and good too. She married an officer and went away to India, and died there. Her father and mother were opposed to the marriage. Captain Ingraham—that was her husband's name—had been very attentive to Mrs. Deborah, and every one thought it would be a match, but presently Charlotte came home—she had been away in London at a finishing-school—and it was not long before the captain took to her and left her sister. I don't know that she was to blame—perhaps she wasn't, either. It hung on a long time, and one while he was forbidden the house, but Mrs. Deborah begged for her sister that he might be allowed to come again. I think that made my master and mistress believe that Mrs. Deborah had never cared for him. Such bats as some people are!" said Mrs. Austin, indignantly—"Not that I mean any disrespect to my master and mistress. But however one may wish to 'order one's self lowly and reverently to one's betters,' one can't help having eyes in one's head, and I do say master and mistress were blind as owls in that matter."
"Well, and so Mrs. Deborah—" said I, very much interested.
"Well, and so Mrs. Deborah brought it about, and got her sister married, and was as gay as a lark at the wedding and till Mrs. Ingraham went away. But then she had a long low fever, and we all thought she would die. But she got well, and since then she has just lived for other people—for her sister and brother and the poor and afflicted. And she will have her crown in heaven, miss, you may be sure. Neither Captain nor Mrs. Ingraham lived long. They died of the fever they have over there before they had been in India a year. Oh, it's a sad story."
"I think Mrs. Deborah is just like an angel," said I. "I never saw any one so good, only my own mother."
"Ah, well! It's only natural, as Mrs. Deborah says, that you should like your own mother best. But I wish you could stay, Miss Olivia. I never took to any young lady as I have to you—not since my mistress was young; and I'll tell you what, my dear: you shall copy out my own private recipe-book for your use when you go to house-keeping; and that's what I wouldn't do for the duke's house-keeper herself, I do assure you. 'No, Mrs. Smith, ma'am,' says I; 'anything in reason, such as my almond biscuits or peppermint cordial, you are welcome to, but my lemon curds and rose cakes are my own, and I wouldn't impart them to Queen Charlotte herself;' says I."
I appreciated highly this token of Austin's regard, and really spent, the next day in copying out the recipes, which was no easy task, considering Austin's cramped hand-writing and her very peculiar views as to spelling. I have the manuscript somewhere now.
I spent a few days in Plymouth, finishing a piece of needle-work I had begun with Miss Nicholas, and, to my great delight and that of my school-mates, Mrs. Deborah provided the materials for a farewell party, at which I presided, and which was quite a grand entertainment. The girls overwhelmed me with housewives and cushions and other keepsakes. Even Miss Nicholas gave me an elegant thread-case when I took leave of her, and we parted the best of friends.
The next week we all went up to town, and were established in commodious and handsome lodgings in what was then the fashionable part of London. Mrs. Austin mourned over the bread and the dirt and the blue milk and thin cream, but I thought everything charming. We had a handsome carriage and servants at our command, for Mr. Wyndham was both rich and liberal, and we went to see all the sights—the Tower, and Hampton Court, and the exhibitions of all sorts, and Raneleigh, then a fashionable resort, and the parks, and many other fine things. We also went to Windsor, and there I saw King George III., whom I had grown-up to think a kind of monster, and found, to my surprise, to be a kindly-looking, white-headed old man, whom I instantly compared to old Deacon Bradley in Lee. Also I saw Queen Charlotte, who curtseyed politely in answer to the low reverences of our ladies, and the little princess Amelia, and, what I believe I valued more than all, I had a good look at Miss Burney, the author of "Evelina," who was then in attendance on the queen. And I saw other authors and lords and ladies, who looked very much like other people when all was done. And I had more new clothes made than I thought I should ever wear out in the world, and gloves and fans, and pretty things in plenty. And I bought presents for everybody in the family, mostly of books, only I purchased a fine large pair of ear-rings for Rose, who had a negro's fondness for gay finery.
The last day came. It was a heart-breaking day. I did not know how much I loved my friends till I came to leave them. Mrs. Deborah kissed me and held me in her arms and called me her "darling child," and Mrs. Angelica mourned alternately over my ingratitude in going and her brother's unkindness in letting me go, and gave me a bottle of her beloved camphor julep: "In case you should have a headache when you get to that dreadful America, my dear." Oh, it was a sad time.
Mr. and Mrs. Chapin, with whom I travelled, were very kind and attentive, and we had a short and pleasant voyage. I reached New York without a single misadventure or a day's sickness, and found my father waiting for me.
There was nothing to detain us in New York after father had wondered over the amount of my baggage and got it safely passed through the custom-house. We went up the Hudson to Albany in a sloop in four days, which was considered a very short passage, and travelled the rest of the way in our own wagon, which father had brought down and left with a friend in Albany. And so it came to pass that at the end of a week we reached Castle Hill, and I found myself once more in my mother's arms, after an absence of nearly three years.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME.
HOW strange it seemed, that first evening at home!—so strange and yet so familiar. There was all the old furniture I knew so well, and the old faces, all less changed than I should have expected after a three years' absence. Mother had grown somewhat thin, and I saw gray threads in her hair, but her colour was good, and, on the whole, she looked better than when I left her. Jeanne too looked older and graver, and Ruth and Harry had grown almost out of my knowledge, though Ruth kept her baby face, and was, if anything, prettier than ever. As to Rose, she had come to that age after which coloured women never seem to change.
How much I had to tell and to hear!—As that Ezra had entered college in the Junior year, and expected to graduate this coming commencement, when he would go back to Lee for a while to study divinity with good Mr. Henderson. (That was the way divinity was usually studied in those days. After a young man had finished his college course he went to live with some clergyman, under whose direction he pursued his theological studies, and whom he helped in the work of the parish. Mr. Henderson had almost always one or two students with him when we lived in Lee. I don't think it was at all a bad plan.) Tom was still in Salisbury with his uncle, doing very well, and likely to become a partner in due time. Jeanne still had the school in the village. She had received the offer of a better place in the Dartmouth academy, but she would not leave mother, at least not till I came home. Ruth and Harry went to school, and Ruth had learned to spin, and had worked a magnificent sampler, which was to be framed. Father's farm was improving, and he had come out of the Albany business a great deal better than he expected, so that the family were once more in easy circumstances; but he liked Vermont, and had no notion of going back to Lee.
Of course I had in my turn a great deal to tell about my travels and the people I had seen. Then my trunks were opened, and I distributed my presents, in which I had the good fortune to please everybody, especially Rose, who was delighted with her ear-rings, and Harry, to whom I had brought a grand knife with a corkscrew in it. To be sure, he never had any corks to draw, but it was a great thing to be able to do so. Mother was pleased with a fine copy of Cowper which Mrs. Deborah had sent her, and Ruth delighted equally by a great jointed doll and a well-furnished work-box. And so we sat and talked and listened and admired, till at last mother declared nobody would be up in time to milk in the morning, and sent us all off to bed.
Jeanne and Ruth slept together, and I was to have for the present a room to myself. Mother had fitted it up nicely with the Chinese linen hangings which used to decorate our best bed-room in Lee, and there were all my old valued possessions. When I waked in the morning, it seemed to me almost a dream that I had ever been so far away.
But the feeling was dispelled when I rose and looked out of the window. The outside world was all strange to me, and very dreary I must say it looked. I had left everything in blossom in England—the woods bursting into leaf and full of violets, primroses, and all sorts of pretty flowers, the turf starred with daisies, and the hedges beginning to be white with bloom. Here the spring was late even for Vermont. The trees were almost as naked as in winter, the grass, where there was any grass, had hardly started, the fields were encumbered with huge pine stumps, half-burned logs, and stone heaps, and the great hill which arose between me and the sunrise was black with gloomy spruces. I learned afterward to look upon the view from that window as a very fine one, but my taste for the picturesque was not greatly developed at that time, and I must say it looked very dismal.
"It is home—home," I repeated to myself; and I hastened to dress and to say my prayers, that I might run down stairs and milk my own cow, Snowball, which father had told me was the best cow he had. But, lo and behold! My hands had lost their old skill, and cramped dreadfully. Snowball was uneasy at the presence of a stranger, and at last I had to give it up.
I was kept pretty busy that day putting away my possessions and answering the questions and remarks of Ruth, who followed me like my shadow. I remember both she and Harry were quite indignant when I told them that King George was a nice-looking old gentleman, very much like Deacon Bradley in Lee.
"Deacon Bradley was a good man, and King George is a wicked, bad man," said he, indignantly. "He made his soldiers kill the people at Bunker Hill, and Jeanne's father. You ought not to say so, Olive."
I tried to explain to Harry that it was not King George alone who was responsible for the war, but I don't think I succeeded. I suppose nobody in these days can form a notion of the way the Americans of that time felt toward King George.
It was not till the next day, when Ruth had gone down to see some of her school-mates and to display her treasures, that mother and I had a chance for a good, long talk. I told her all my experiences and heard all that had happened at home. Mother said she had become quite contented with the change. The climate suited her and the farm was an excellent one, especially for stock of all kinds. Father had bought an interest in a saw-mill, which was doing an excellent business, and he had discovered on his farm a ledge of fine white marble which must some day become valuable.
He had improved the house, and was going to improve it still more. We had pleasant neighbours, and there was very good society in the village, and an excellent minister. Mother said kindly that she hoped I would not be home-sick, but she was afraid I would find the change very great.
I would have given all the finery with which Mr. Wyndham's kindness had endowed me to be able to say honestly that I was not home-sick, but the feeling had been growing on me for forty-eight hours. I was very much ashamed of it, and very much vexed at myself; but there was no denying the fact.
It was not that my own personal accommodations were not as good as any I had been used to at school, or even at Mrs. Deborah's, but all things out of doors—the stumps, the rail fences, the rough, half-cleared fields, the bare trees, the rough roads—were so forbidding and dismal. I thought of the garden at Melcombe, where the violets and lilies of the valley ran riot on the bank under the elm trees, where the porch and arbour were covered with sweet honey-suckle, and passion-flower and jessamine and roses seemed to grow of their own accord and blossomed all summer long; of the shrubbery, with its holly and laurestine and filberts and beautiful mossy, shady walks. I thought of the lanes protected by high hedge-rows where the rose campion blossomed till Christmas, and the periwinkle covered the banks. And then I remembered the library and the piano and pictures, and—what I was most of all ashamed of—Mrs. Austin's clotted creams and junkets and apricot tarts and almond cakes.
It was not that I wanted to go back—I don't think I should have been undecided for a moment if the offer had been made me then and there—but nevertheless the fact remained that I was unhappy. I said to myself that now I was in a free country, where every one had a chance, where poor people did not live in pigsties, and highway robberies and public hangings of a dozen people at a time were not of almost daily occurrence. I remembered the poor woman who had been hung in London while I was there for stealing ten shillings, and recalled Mrs. Tibbs, the cottager's wife with ten children, in a room where the rain made a puddle on the clay floor under the candle, and the worms dropped from the rotten thatch on her bed, and I thought of Mr. Henderson, and contrasted him with the squire of the next parish to ours, who always seemed too much absorbed in his studies to have a kind word or a smile to bestow on the children. But all would not do. My mind would go back to the pleasant things—the flowers and green fields and Mr. Fuller, who was as kind as Mr. Henderson himself. There was no denying it, and I shed tears of vexation and shame over the fact that I regretted England.
But I was never one to sit down and cry over what I could not have, and I knew what my part was. I remembered a sentence in the catechism which I had learned to please my teacher, which ran thus, after enumerating many duties of the "second table:"
"To learn and labour truly to get mine own living, and do my duty in
that state of life unto which it than please God to call me."
I had admired the sentence when I first learned it. Now it came back to me with new meaning. "To do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me." What was my duty? Clearly not to fret because I could not live in two places at once, because I could not eat my cake and have my cake, because I could not at once enjoy all the pleasures and advantages of two countries. But it "was" my duty to be cheerful and contented, to make the very best of the place where I was and the pleasures and blessings I enjoyed. It was my duty to help mother in every possible way, to set a good example to Ruth and Harry, and to show that all the kindness and petting I had enjoyed had not spoiled me. It might be hard work, I said to myself, to settle down into a plain farmer's daughter, but I meant that no farmer's daughter should be more helpful and careful than I. It might be hard, but I had not now to learn where to look for strength when things were hard.
Young as I was, I knew from experience that faithful prayer is always answered, and that "thou, Lord, hast never failed them that seek thee," was only a literal statement of a literal fact. And I found now, as I had always found before, the help I needed. I suppose the natural versatility of my disposition was an assistance to me; but however that might be, in a week's time I was as much at home as if I had never been away. I got out my old wheel, and soon recovered my old sleight-of-hand.
Miss Tabby Wheelwright, our neighbour, who was not the most amiable person in the world, coming in and finding me spinning and singing—for I could spin and sing now—remarked, with a decided sneer, that she should not expect a fine London miss to know how to use the big wheel, whereat I had the audacity to propose a trial of skill and speed, and actually beat her by three knots and a half. I am afraid Miss Tabby did not like me better for it, but I propitiated her by giving her a skein of Devonshire lace thread to mend her veil, and by showing her the real lace darning-stitch.
Of course I had to make a great many new acquaintances, and to answer a great many questions. We were about half a mile from the village, where there were now about five hundred inhabitants, a meeting-house, two or three stores, a good school-house, and the foundation of a county academy. Mr. Winslow was the minister, and he had a nice wife and three or four very pleasant boys and girls. There were a good many young people in the place; and as Jeanne knew them all, and was a favourite with all, there was no lack of society. Indeed, it was not long before mother gently hinted that I was visiting too much for my own good, and suggested that it was a pity I should forget all that I had learned.
Among the contents of the box of books which Mr. Wyndham had given me were the histories of Mr. Hume and Doctor Robertson, and mother now suggested that we young ladies should meet one or two afternoons in the week with our sewing and take turns in reading aloud, thus, as she said—mother always liked to turn a sentence well—enjoying the pleasures of society and improving our minds at the same time. Jeanne and the Winslow girls took up the idea with enthusiasm, and most of the others fell in with it after I had assured them that such reading-parties were fashionable among literary people in London, and that I had been present by special favour at one where two live authors were in the company.
The reading-circle was organized, and was a great success. Remembering Mrs. Deborah's charity work-basket, I had proposed that we should spend every other afternoon in working for the poor—a scheme which was received with great applause, and which only failed from the trifling difficulty that after diligent inquiry we could find no poor people to work for. We did not confine ourselves to history, but sometimes recreated ourselves with poetry and other lighter studies, and sometimes we discussed what we read. No doubt we branched off very considerably from our grand subjects a good many times into the lighter ones of embroidery patterns and dress fashions, but that was all very innocent and did us no harm. And often, too, we fell into graver discourse, which did us a great deal of good, and led some of our number to think more seriously than they had ever done before. I was naturally something of an oracle from the fact of having seen so much more of the world than any of my companions, though I was two or three years the youngest of them, and I might have grown very conceited but for the checks I received at home, where I was still nobody but little Olive, laughed at by my father, not seldom snubbed by Rose, and obliged to be just as obedient as Harry himself.
On the whole, it was a very pleasant summer, after all. I wrote to my English friends, and twice had a great package of letters from them all, and, joy of joys, in the fall Mr. Wyndham sent me a piano! It was a very small affair—hardly bigger than a music-box as compared to those in use nowadays—but it was a good one, and, for a wonder, arrived without any injury from the journey. It was the best piano seen in those parts, and made a great sensation. Mr. Winslow, who understood music, tuned it for me, and with what delight did I get out my music and play my lessons—my "pieces," as the girls say now—for the edification of my friends!
"Yes, it's very fine," said Miss Tabby Wheelwright, who was the kill-joy of the neighbourhood and always saw danger and sin lurking under everything that was pleasant—"yes, it's very nice, Olly, if only you can have that and heaven too."
"Why can't she, Miss Tabby?" asked Harry. "I am sure we hear about harps in heaven."
"But not pianos, Harry," answered Miss Wheelwright, severely.
"Well, harps go by strings and pianos go by strings, so what is the difference?"
Miss Tabby was not quite prepared to answer this reasoning, so she only sighed and "hoped my gifts would not prove to be too much for my grace."
I began to give Ruth music-lessons directly, and found her an apt scholar. Presently, Symantha Winslow wanted to learn, and then her uncle in New York sent her a piano also. Mr. Winslow hunted out his long-disused flute, and we used to have some very nice little concerts.
The end of that summer, however, was overclouded. The small-pox broke out in the vicinity. Very few of us young people had had the disease, for which there was then no known certain preventive but inoculation, which could hardly be called a preventive, either. Dr. Jenner was making his experiments on vaccination and trying to make people believe in its virtues, while a sermon was actually preached against him in an English cathedral, and stories were gravely printed and seriously believed of children out of whose heads cows' horns had grown, and others who had bleated and eaten grass like calves, in consequence of having been subjected to this process. It was not till several years after the time of which I am writing that vaccination became general.
In 1800 ninety-two persons out of every thousand died of small-pox in Great Britain, and of those who recovered many were made blind and others dreadfully disfigured for life. But something like half a century before—I do not now remember the exact date—Lady Montague, a lady of great talents and fashion, as the phrase was then, introduced into England the practice of engrafting or inoculating for small-pox. She had learned it in Turkey, and succeeded, in spite of much opposition and ridicule, in making it popular in England. No doubt she thereby saved many valuable lives and much suffering. It was found that persons who had the small-pox by inoculation seldom died, and not only so, but they were rarely marked or disfigured by the disease. Often they were hardly sick at all. I remember hearing mother say that when she went to the hospital with some six other girls to have the disease, the selectmen of the town promised a new silk dress to the one who should dance a reel every day during her confinement. Every one of the young ladies earned the silk dress, though my mother confessed that on some occasions the figure was rather languidly walked through.
It was now decided by the proper authorities that a small-pox hospital was to be established at Castle Hill, and all the young persons of a certain age were to go through the ordeal of inoculation, I among the rest. Jeanne had had the disease as a child, and Ruth was thought too young. The Stanley house, as it was called, was selected for the use of the girls. It was a comfortable, roomy, cheerful mansion—in fact, it was one of the best houses in the place, though it had been uninhabited for several years save by the old woman who took care of it. I believe it was some way involved in a law-suit. Mrs. Prudence Withal, a very agreeable and sensible widow lady, whose only child was one of the patients, was to matronize and superintend us, and Rose came to wait on us and to help do the work. The house was comfortably fitted up with everything necessary and desirable, and such clothes as were absolutely needful were sent thither, together with abundant stores of fuel and eatables. It happened very luckily that a parcel of books which Mr. Wyndham had sent me with the piano, but which had been supposed lost, turned up at this juncture. It contained, among other things, some of Miss Austin's and Mrs. Inchbald's tales, a chess-board, and abundance of new patterns for work which promised us much diversion.
On Sunday we were publicly prayed for and four of our number, the Winslows, Jane Withal, and myself, joined the church. It was a very solemn season with ourselves and our friends, for we all felt it might be the last time we should ever join together in public worship. I drew up a will disposing of all my little possessions, and wrote a letter to Mrs. Deborah and Mr. Wyndham, to be sent in case of my death. Not that I believed I was going to die. I was young and strong, and very few did die under the effects of inoculation, but still I knew I might be called away, and I thought it would save mother trouble if I wrote out my wishes beforehand. I don't think I was a miracle of wisdom, by any means, but I wish all grown-up people would show as much sense in that respect as I did at fifteen. It would save a great deal of vexation, injustice, and misery.
On Monday morning I bade home and friends good-bye, charging Ruth to be diligent with her music and not to forget to close the piano when she had finished her lessons. Father carried me over to the Stanley mansion, where I found my young friends already assembled; and bidding me keep up good courage, he left me to my fate.